


Estranged Blood

by bbcsherlockian



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, POV Sherlock Holmes, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-22
Updated: 2013-11-22
Packaged: 2018-01-02 09:05:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1054955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bbcsherlockian/pseuds/bbcsherlockian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>these hands of mine</p>
<p>oh, the things they have done</p>
            </blockquote>





	Estranged Blood

these hands of mine

oh, the things they have done

i’m looking at them now, and although i recognise them, recognise the lines, the curves, the harshly jutting angles, although i recognise them they are tarnished and stained and no longer mine

with them i used to make tea, grasp your gun as our feet reflected off the pavement like light will dance across silver pools and our breaths burnt the air as a match does, gently cradle my bow and softly coax foul screechings from my violin, hack into your laptop, scratch calculations into cheap paper, touch you, hold you, love you, reach for you

you used to stare at them a long

long

time ago, before they were yours to touch as you pleased, before i was entitled to run my fingers through your hair and write how much you meant to me onto your skin with feather-light touches, before i did more than just hold your browning in place of your hand

but now these hands

these horrid, estranged appendages that sit mockingly at the end of my wrists, they remind me, remind me, remind me

i died and i swore i would return to you but you didn’t know that my palms still held warmth, my knuckles still flexed and bruised when i punched and they scraped messily when i tumbled, my fingers still held tightly against purpling throats and angry mouths

they didn’t dare dance across violin strings, not then

five minutes ago i knocked on your door, my hands so happily having forgotten taking the life of another man mere hours previously, of falling towards my sides so placidly as i watched him breathe and breathe and breathe and stop, of running over his body after so that i might relieve him of his money, his weapons, his being

they had forgotten brushing my fingers through my hair and of me grinning down at a corpse not yet cold, the last one, the last one, my key to you

four minutes ago you saw me and your mouth made shapes that spun the threads of biting sentences into words which refused to penetrate my mind - swimming in another man’s blood - but all i could notice was your haggard face, your hair so, so dishevelled, your ears, your limp, your hands, your hands

you’re tired and you have given me life

thirty seconds ago, somewhere, once, you shut a door and the sound and it’s definitiveness resonated along the hallway, through the carpet, deep into the marrow of my bones, sweating out of my pores and resting solidly in the base of my throat, drowning me, drowning in another man’s blood

i’m gasping for air but with a strange cruelty and righteousness i am disallowed the oxygen that refuses to permeate this thick film of guilt, longing, pointlessness

my hands

these hands that i can no longer associate with

these hands that i shall rip into with a serrated blade, tear into the skin and bone and fibers and human denial in the hope than then you will forget them, forgive me

i look down at them now and they swim into astounding clarity through the fog and the distortion of self-loathing; they are foul in their ugliness and they no longer remember the feel of your skin

the man, that man, his blood is embedded in all of the lines across my skin, the creases, the scars, the flaws, under my nails and in their beds, crusted around my joints like a ring, a ring of commitment and truth that i could never hide from you, rubbed over my own veins in a desperate attempt to prove that it is mine on my hands, my blood on my hands, my blood on

my hands

the terror strikes me as i move towards the stairs - they belonged to me once, i belonged to you once, but for no more time, this is where the clock face shatters - my feet are heavy with something more than the exhaustion of making a kill, of something more than even the weight of it

i’m halfway down the stairs and i turn with my tarnished hand gripping the banister, i turn to look at your door with a futile hope that you will open it and you will forget my hands

you don’t.


End file.
